


Metaphors

by CulterVenatorius



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Crack, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Sassy Will Graham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 10:52:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14018697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CulterVenatorius/pseuds/CulterVenatorius
Summary: "Will giggles. 'Nah. All I wanted to to say is that your metaphor sucks. At least compared to mine.'"Will gets a better metaphor, Hannibal is sulky. That's it.





	Metaphors

**Author's Note:**

> *takes a deep breath*  
> Okay, hi everyone. After months of binge-reading in this wonderful fandom I've finally decided to post this...thing.  
> I welcome constructive criticism. But please be kind. This is my very first fanfic and English isn't my native language.

Will is sitting on the couch, cross-legged and with a book on his lap. The living room is drenched in flickering, soft colors, cut off from the outside world through heavy curtains. The cozy warmth from the fireplace is just this side of comfortable, but Will likes the feeling of wooden floors and the soft fabric of the couch anyway. So he doesn't mind, especially because he knows how much Hannibal is comforted by the radiating heat. He sits opposite of him, ensconced in a high leather armchair, as always dressed in an impeccable three piece suit. The soft light of the fireplace accents his high cheekbones and dances across his forehead, frowned in concentration. There is the sound of charcoal scratching against paper, the light bathes the sketch-pad in beige. It must look like old parchment. Will wonders what Hannibal is drawing. Probably a scene from days gone by. Maybe the statue of Claude Bernard in front of the entrance of the Collège de France in Paris. Once Hannibal told Will that, while staying at boarding school in the French Capital, he had admired the 19th century physiologist for his research in toxicology and promoting the method of research of verification and falsification through experiments. Of course he had, there's no way Hannibal could have ever done something as normal as admiring someone like Kurt Cobain (who definitely was _not_ the reason Will had dyed his hair blonde when he was a teenager).  
Maybe he is drawing Will as an ancient hero like Iason, sawing dragon's teeth to gain the Golden Fleece. And of course he would draw Will naked, he always does. Somehow Will doubts that it's only due to the ideal nudity, the way classical sculptures show mortal men naked to portray them as heroic or even divine beings. Maybe it's because Hannibal doesn't draw him like ancient artists would do, that is: with a very small penis. In fact, his drawings flatter Will's anatomy – at least in Will's opinion. And it's not like Hannibal hasn't _very_ intimate knowledge about the original.

Will sighs. Hannibal: FBI's most wanted, cannibalistic serial killer, ethical questionable psychiatrist, chef with a taste for offal and bad puns and, of course, ever the sophisticated artist. He wonders if he would ever draw something as mundane as their dog (Hannibal still refuses to refer to Biddy as _their_ dog, but Will caught him twice giving her extra treats while allowing her to sit on the couch) gnawing on expensive Italian leather shoes. Though this isn't quite fair because Hannibal doesn't know about the incident yet and Will has no intention telling him.

He isn't objected to Hannibal's lifestyle in general. Sometimes it's just too much.  
There are things he had trouble accustoming with. The show-off in the intermission of an opera, the meaningless small talk at art exhibitions, endless appointments with your tailor...not to mention the ridiculous plastic suit Hannibal insists to wear while killing the rude. Maybe the latter isn't officially a paragraph in _How to lead a pretentious lifestyle with your cannibal lover while staying mentally sane_. And to be honest: Will grew comfortable with hunting, killing and cooking à la Dr Lecter quite quickly. That is, apart from years of manipulation, suffering of encephalitis, getting shot, gutted, cut in various ways, not to mention nearly losing your face – literally – or losing your mind – also literally considered nearly getting your brain eaten.  
But though he grew accustomed to it, he is sometimes exasperated with the meticulous and pedantic manner Hannibal shows in nearly everything he does. He finds himself leaving his muddy shoes in the entrance room or placing a bottle of bear without a coaster on the counter in the kitchen, condensation painting a dark ring on the wood. It's just to reassure himself that he can, although it might be a little immature. And if he's quite honest with himself: He likes to needle Hannibal. Their mutual manipulation and bloody games being over, someone can still indulge in picking little cracks in Hannibal Lecter's overconfident behavior, can't one?

He returns to his book with a sigh. It's a study in ancient Greece he mainly reads to delight Hannibal during their frequent visits of museums. Although, regarding Will's origin, one might think he isn't conversant with literary and arts, he has a quite reasonable knowledge beyond basics. But he's more into psychology, criminology and forensic anthropology. Nevertheless, from time to time he reads about ancient or European art, history and culture. It's not to impress Hannibal or trying to start an intellectual fight. He just loves the warmth that spreads inside him whenever he can surprise Hannibal with new gained knowledge. In this moments there's always a glance of pure adoration in the older man's face. A subtle smile that shows his astonishment that Will, after all this time, still isn't totally predictable for him.

And so they sit there in shared comfortable silence, the rustle of pages, the scratching of charcoal against paper, the cracking of fire and Biddy's soft snore only highlighting the cozy atmosphere. But after half an hour or an hour or maybe two – who can measure time in this cocoon outside of the world? – a smirk starts to grow an Will's face.

“Did you know”, he says in a voice he hopes sounds unsuspiciously conversational, “that people in ancient Greece believed artwork to be érgon, to be created by nature?”

The sound of charcoal against paper stops. Hannibal quirks an eyebrow and looks at Will, mildly irritated by the sudden raise of the subject (though he would never admit it).

“Did they?”

“Yeah. Actually they saw artists merely as people who simply transferred raw material in a shape already given by nature. Strictly speaking, there wasn't even a term for artists. Though art was highly appreciated, their creators were regarded as craftsmen, which was a profession on a rather low social level.”

Hannibal hums and takes a sip of his wine, savoring the off-dry, earthy taste of the South African Pinotage.

Given no reply, Will continues: “Physical labor, except agricultural work, was despised. Being a musician for example or...”  
he pauses and tips his index finger against his lips as in consideration.  
“...drawing...or...”  
he has to stifle a giggle  
“...providing medical care...was only done by bánausos, which is the pejorative term for craftsmen. This point of view was even shared by the Roman politician and philosopher Cicero several centuries later.”

Hannibal puts his drawing utensils at side, crosses his legs and clasps his hands in his lap. He looks like they were back in Baltimore in the psychiatrist’s office.

“Your newly found interest in ancient art is rather intriguing, Will. Tell me, do you imagine me as a scruffy, underpaid guy? Maybe even living with a bunch of dogs and getting bullied by my employer? I can't take any offense in you comparing me to yourself. If this was your aim, it's a rather poor attempt of you.”

Will giggles. “Nah. All I wanted to to say is that your metaphor sucks. At least compared to mine.”

“And which metaphor would that be, my dear Will?”

“Remember the Ingram case? You tried to show me that you weren't transforming me into a monster but rather bringing to light what had already been there. You said that you could feed the caterpillar, that you could whisper through the chrysalis, but what hatches would follow its own nature and would be beyond you.”

“Ah, yes, I remember. A quite elaborated metaphor, its meaning clothed in pictures of nature just as the caterpillar clothes itself in his chrysalis.”

Will rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that's what _you_ think. But regarding our shared history, a sculptor getting some scars and carving his marks in his masterpiece fits more.”

“One could consider it as a reasonable decent picture.” answers Hannibal in a peeved tone. The way in which he straightens up and puts his wineglass on the table next to him shows how pissed he is. He almost spills some of his wine. _Almost_. Because he'd never do that (besides the evening in the kitchen after a very satisfying hunt when they didn't made it to their bedroom). He stands up and heads to the door, accompanied by Will's snickers.  
“I just remembered I have to prepare the meat for tomorrow's filet de bœuf jardinière.” And with this he leaves the living room in an overconscientious dignified manner. The meat, of course, is derived from a very rude florist who called dianthus barbatus an ugly plant.

For every other person Hannibal wears his person suit, calm and composed like he always had. But in Will's presence he is just _Hannibal_ – including all human emotions. Will isn't bothered about his cannibal's indignation and injured pride. He knows that he is off the menu, at least since the brain incident to which they agreed to refer only as _the dinner that ran wrong_.

Although he enjoys to needle him, Will doesn't want to torture Hannibal and so he follows him in the kitchen a few minutes later. He wants to sooth him, because sleeping next to a sulking cannibal is no fun at all. He finds Hannibal standing at the counter, massaging herbals in a burgundy cut of meat with more force than necessary. Will walks behind him, wraps his arms around the blond's stomach and nuzzles his neck.  
“Still pouting?”

Hannibal turns around, a lordly expression on his face. “I am _not_ pouting.”

“Yes, you are.” Will says with a cheeky smile. “But you've told me on several occasions that you're intrigued by my mind, haven't you? You should give me credits, because you know, a metaphor in which you're getting your hands dirty and being all sweaty is more to my likening.”

Hannibal turns around, quirks an eyebrow and smirks. “Oh, is that so?” He puts his hands on the lean hips of the younger man, drawing him close and brushing his cheek with his own. Will feels the hot breath against his skin as Hannibal whispers with a dangerous low voice in his thick accent. “But you have been rather rude, my sweet William.”

Will lays his head on Hannibal's shoulder and smiles in the crook of his neck. “What's to be done about that?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Wanna know where Will got his knowledge about small dicks in ancient art? http://www.howtotalkaboutarthistory.com/reader-questions/why-do-all-old-statues-have-such-small-penises/
> 
> Think you all got that Biddy is a nickname of Bedelia.


End file.
